Things That Happen at Two in the Morning
by It's-Teatime-Somewhere
Summary: You don't know how to approach this. You've been thinking about it since that first date. When would he want it? Would it be an integral part of your relationship? Apparently not, as he had only brought it up once. Warnings for Dubious Consent and consent issues in general. E/R


You don't know how to approach this.

You've been thinking about it since that first date. _When would he want it? Would it be an integral part of your relationship?_ Apparently not, as he had only brought it up once.

It was your sixth date and you were nervous. Courfeyrac had told you how he and Jehan had gotten together (you still didn't like the word) after their third date. You knew that Grantaire had been pining for months before you had acknowledged him, and surely he had built up some frustration. When would he ask for it?

He had brought it up.

* * *

"What's bothering you, Apollo?"

"Nothing." You shift in your seat, picking apart your napkin.

"Yeah, right," Grantaire scoffed. He rests his hand on the table, close to yours. "Will you tell me what's wrong?"

How are you supposed to approach this question? You are the most eloquent, dynamic, and empowering man on campus, yet you have no words to answer his question.

"I want to help you."

You pause. "When do you want to become intimate?" you finally ask, feeling your cheeks heat up.

Grantaire gave you a look, and then burst out into laughter. You frown. "Why is this funny? I find it to be a valid question."

"Your face," Grantaire wheezes, "it looks like your waiting for a death sentence."

When he realizes you are not smiling, he quickly sobers up and takes one of your hands. His hand is warm and calloused. "I would never make you do anything, Enjolras. If you don't want this, we don't have to do anything."

"But won't you wish-"

"I want you to be happy," he interrupts, "and if we need to take it slow, I'll wait till we're eighty before I even make a move."

You were relieved. Grantaire saw it in you and smiled. "I don't want to pressure you, ever."

You nodded. Hopefully, this would work.

* * *

And although he says he doesn't want to pressure you, you know about instinct. You know that most people are driven by their libido, and need stimulation in order to be happy.

What if you aren't making him happy? What if he gets frustrated? And uncomfortable? What if, because of this, he leaves? Finds someone easier to be with?

Feeling stressed, you head to Courfeyrac flat. He is an expert on this type of thing. You think that he might be able to help you become accustomed with the idea of…doing this with Grantaire.

"What now, Enj? It's like, ten pm. aren't you supposed to be on a date with R?" Courfeyrac doesn't even open his eyes as he lets you into his house. But when he does, he sees something that makes his face fall. "Okay, what happened now?"

You try to explain in the simplest terms, hoping for a clinical and studious explanation. No use showing your emotions. After all, it is Grantaire who is being spoken of, and you have nothing to do with that.

Courfeyrac frowns when you finish. "So you think Grantaire wants to fuck you, and want to know how to make it the least painful for you in order to please him?" he asks in a harsh whisper.

You nod, and Courfeyrac bolts from the room. You frown. What did you do wrong? Courfeyrac should be ace at this. He picked up men and women of all types and managed to keep in touch with many. In fact, his exploits had led to him having friends everywhere, from high government positions to bartenders who gave him free drinks. Why would he be bothered by this?

You look around the tiny apartment, noticing the different trinkets so reminiscent of Courfeyrac. However, soon it seems as if Courfeyrac isn't returning. He's been gone for about an hour, and you have a test tomorrow. You are about to leave when two figures reenter the room.

"Here he is," Courfeyrac says, his face hard as stone. Combeferre enters the room, glaring at Enjolras.

"I had half a mind to get Grantaire over here," he says quietly, sitting next to you. You blanch.

"Why? He isn't supposed to know!" you shout. Why would he do this to you? You just want your relationship to succeed.

"This isn't healthy, Enjolras. This…it shouldn't be like this! This is not what a relationship entails. If you feel pressured into this-"

"I'm not pressured," you quickly correct, because you aren't. This is what people do in relationships. They make sacrifices for the other person. You think about all that Grantaire has done for you. He has cut back on drinking and vows to be sober by your six month anniversary. He is less cynical about your beliefs (or hides his opinions better) and makes fewer crude jokes around you. He is happier and laughs and smiles all the time, and helps you calm down when you are too stressed.

This is the least you can do.

Combeferre gives you a look.

"I'm _not," _you respond with more force. "I would just like a few pointers on how to make this the most pleasurable experience for him."

After a long moment of silence, Combeferre nods. "Fine. But the minute you don't feel comfortable, you tell him to stop. Okay? Immediately."

You nod. If that is what it takes for him to let you be, you will agree to anything. Hopefully this will not be as terrifying as it sounds.

With a sigh, Courfeyrac pulls up a chair. "I hate being the player," he groans as he launches into an explanation.

* * *

When you leave the small flat, you are feeling much better. You understand quite a bit more about the encounter, and you think you are ready to give Grantaire what he deserves from a partner.

It's almost one in the morning, and you hope he is still awake. You decide it is better to get it over with now so you can move on with your life in the morning.

However, as you walk down the dark streets, a thought strikes you.

What if this will be a continuous thing? Will Grantaire want sex every night? Will you have to continue to pretend to be interested in it? How long before he finds out that this isn't what it looks like?

You feel the hyperventilation coming on. These panic attacks must stop. They are intruding on your life and you want them to leave. But you can't breathe, and you quickly take a seat on some random porch, putting your head in your hands and trying to calm down. It is impossible. Thoughts keep flying through your head at the speed of light, showing you all of the paths and roads this plan could take. What would it be like the morning after? How is one supposed to act then? Questions tumble about your head, things you never thought to ask Courfeyrac.

Your vision is blurring. Shit. This is the part you hate the most. The inevitable passing out due to the lack of blood in your brain. Trying to pause the onslaught of fear, you lean back against the fencepost, closing your eyes and massaging your head. You focus on breathing and ignore the thoughts as if they are nothing more than gnats swarming around you.

"Enjolras? Are you okay?" You hear his voice as he walks down the street. You are relieved to see him. "Shit," he murmurs as he bends down to meet you. "What the fuck happened? Another panic attack?"

You nod and he grimaces. He doesn't like your attacks because they make him feel useless. Secretly, you love that he cares.

Carefully, he brings you to your feet and maneuvers you towards the house, whispering soothing words into your ear. Some you recognize as poetry (probably stolen from Jehan) and others are barely even words, just monotonous sounds that put your mind to rest.

By the time you reach your house, the panic attack is all but gone. Grantaire brings you a mug of tea as he settles you down on the couch, and the two of you sit in silence as you sip the war beverage. Eventually, Grantaire turns on the TV and you listen to the lull of some late-night talk show and revel in the warmth of your partner next to you. It is quiet for a while, and you slowly get closer and closer to Grantaire, trying to be inconspicuous. Now, you are all but on top of him, his arms curled around your shoulders and yours massaging his hands.

He leans in for a kiss and you permit it. The television is all but forgotten as you revel in the taste of his mouth. You never feel closer than you do when kissing him. It is like you become a single entity, as it should be.

You wonder if this is how sexual intercourse is.

After a few minutes of lazy kissing, you decide to move forward with your plan. You can feel Grantaire's penis getting hard, and your heart begins to beat faster. Usually, these sessions do give Grantaire an erection but he always excuses himself to deal with it in the bathroom. This time, it is your turn to assist him.

You rub your hand along what you hope is the shaft. Courfeyrac said this would be pleasurable, and you can see the effects immediately. Grantaire tips his head back and moans, hands dropping to his side.

Spurred by his reaction, you continue to touch him, eventually delving into his pants to reach the penis itself. It is warm and heavy and you continue to stroke it as Grantaire's breathing picks up. You are fascinated by his reactions, and try different things based on what you see. You figure out that he likes you focusing on the head of the penis rather than the shaft, so you rub your thumb over the top often, eliciting beautiful sounds from him.

Taking a deep breath, you feel that you are ready to move forward. You pull him in for a sloppy kiss—he is already half-mad with lust—and begin to pull him towards the bedroom, trying to continue to pleasure him as you walk down the halls. Finally, you reach the dark room and begin to undress him. He relents and you are soon faced with a naked man.

Feeling uncomfortable, you quickly shed your own clothes and look down at your own penis, flaccid and pale. Will this be an issue? You hope not.

You return to your partner and continue to kiss him, moving your hands across the planes of his body as he does to you. You feel his coarse, calloused hands cross your back and your shoulders and you feel his breath on your cheek as he mutters obscenities under his breath.

You put your lips against his ear, feeling the dark hair tickle your nose. "Would you like to fuck me?" you ask in what you hope is a seductive whisper. Courfeyrac had told you too keep your voice level and to move into your lower register. He said this was more attractive to sexual partners, and you hoped he was right. You felt terribly awkward, but seeing the pleasure written into every fiber of Grantaire's body was enough right now.

Immediately as you spoke, Grantaire pulled away. You frown. You are pretty sure you did everything right. Did you forget something? You give Grantaire a confusing look.

He just stares at you, appalled.

"W-what did you just say?" he whispers after a moment of silence.

"I asked if you would like to fuck me," you respond. Maybe his mind was addled with sex. "Would you like that now?" it's like dealing with a child sometimes. You hope you can push through his thick skull so you don't die of embarrassment.

He says nothing. Instead, he walks away from you. You are about to ask about what is going on, but he soon turns back to you, pulling on boxers and a ratty t-shirt, you notice that his penis has deflated, and, for the first moment, think you might have done something wrong.

Yet still, he does not speak to you. Instead he grabs a bathrobe and gently puts it around your shoulders, pulling it closed over your exposed body. Then, with shaking hands, he leads you to the bed and sits down on the edge next to you.

You are terribly confused.

"Enjolras," he says, his voice calm and steady. You would think him at ease if it were not for the fire in his eyes. Grantaire never had the fire burning in his eyes. Of course, he often spoke of the passion in your eyes but you never saw it in his.

Never until tonight.

"I'm going to ask you something," he continued, "and I want you to answer it truthfully, without thinking about how the answer will affect me, or another person, or the goddamn world. Okay?"

You nod. Grantaire is filled with an unrecognizable emotion, and you think it best to humor him until you figure out your wrongdoing.

"Do you want to have sex with me?"

Oh god. What do you say? "Yes, so you will be happy?" "Yes, because it is wanted of me?" "No, this is incredibly uncomfortable but I would do anything for you?" once again, your brain moves at a thousand miles an hour as you try to figure out what answer would please Grantaire the most.

Grantaire, however, seems to read into your silence. "I thought so," he says simply. "So why did you ask me this."

You mumble something about society and that quote about how happiness begins where selfishness ends and he knows that when you start quoting basketball coaches that you have no idea what you're saying.

And that's true. How are you supposed to explain this?

You are dealing with your dilemma as he takes your hands in his. He does not speak, and you look up from your lap to his face to see that he is crying. Silently, of course (Grantaire never makes a scene) but the tears are still running down his face. You can tell his is trying his best to ignore him, but eventually he is forced to take on of his hands away to wipe the tears off his cheeks.

"Why would you do this?"

"Because you have given up so much for me, and it is only fair that I return the favor."

He shakes his head. "No, not like this. Never like this."

You do not understand. Does he not want sex? His libido is working perfectly fine, you experienced that moments ago. But now—

Is this the end? Is your relationship ending? You will never find another Grantaire, for no one and even compare to the man who is willing to put up with you all the time. No one can replace his smiles and his snark and his wit and his charm and _him_.

"How would you like it, then? I promise you, I am prepared for whatever may happen. As long as it makes you happy—"

"If you say that one more time I swear…" he breaks off and swallows hard.

There is silence. Grantaire gets a tissue and wipes his face off. He sniffles, and then moves away from you so you are sitting parallel to each other rather than facing them.

"I am so, so sorry. I am so very sorry, E," he whispers. "Fuck, how did I mess up so badly?"

"You messed up?" this is news to you.

"Of course I did! I pressured you into sex! I-I was almost a rapist!"

"It wasn't rape," you say calmly. "I was expecting it."

"Did. You. Want. It." His voice punctuates each individual word. He turns to you and gives you the hardest stare you have ever experienced. His eyes seem to search your soul and tear the truth out of you.

"No." he will hate you now. "I didn't want it, but it made you happy." You should leave. "This was not the plan, you were not supposed to stop us." You should stop talking. "I mean, you're giving up your main vice for me! This is the least I can do."

"This is not something I want. I never wanted this, not in a million years." He grabs at his hair. "How could I have driven you to this!" he continues to mutter to himself and you feel the need to stop it.

"It was not your fault that you did not see this. I asked for help from Courfeyrac—"

"_Courfeyrac_ did this to you? He planted this sick idea in your head?" Grantaire jumps off the bed and begins tearing apart the desk, trying to find his phone. "I will murder that man!"

You rush after him. "No, it's not like that! He didn't even want to help me. He called Combeferre to try and talk me out of it." God, this is turning into a soap opera. You take a second to compose yourself. Look at the logic. "I wanted to do something nice for you, and this seemed like the best option."

"This is the worst fucking idea you've ever thought of," he laughs. "And that's including the time you tried to shut down the Starbucks downtown by replacing their coffee beans with brown M&M's."

You frown. That was a good idea, thank you very much. You only had to pay a few thousands of dollars to cover the damages of the machines, and the message got out.

"Point is, this is not how sex works. Its dubious consent at best. I mean," he laughs, a cold, harsh laugh. "You don't even _want_ it!"

"Yes I do."

"Can you honestly tell me that? You really want someone sticking a large object up your ass?"

You shift your weight. When put that way… "But the majority of society seems to enjoy it. And you definitely do."

"But you don't. That's the thing that everything hinges on. I won't—I can't put you through this because when you said that to me," you know exactly what he's talking about "I felt like I was going to die." He takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair. "A relationship does not need sex to function. Sure, sex is great and all, but if it makes you uncomfortable I never want to try and force it on you. I mean, if you can't get it up when this is in front of you," he gestures to his body, "then I highly doubt anything else will spark your interest." He laughs and you decide to let out a breathy exhale of a laugh too.

This gives him motivation and he continues his oddly eloquent speech. "I'm serious, Enjolras. You are the love of my life and—wait, this is probably too soon, but fuck it all—and I could never live with myself if I hurt you. I don't need to have sex with you to love you, and you are not allowed to think that you've got to put yourself into that position ever again."

"But won't you leave? It's only logical to want to feel the release, and in most cases sexual intercourse is required for intimacy between partners." You stammer out different statistics and facts.

"I'm not going anywhere, Apollo. I've been waiting for you for three years, and you think I'm going to give up now?" He sounds so sure. Like no one will ever pique his fancy or catch his eye. Like the hips or breasts of a beautiful woman won't ever lure him into their grasp. As if you have been in a relationship for much longer than four months.

You mention this fact to him, and he smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Enjolras, to me we've been in a relationship since we first met. You just didn't appreciate my charms back then." He bats his eyelashes and you let out a huff of laughter.

"Now, let's just get things straight," he says, taking your hands once again and walking closer. His hands are very nice and he smells like coffee and acrylic paint. "I will never force you into sex, and you will never do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Also, the minute, _second_, you feel nervous or anything, you will stop whatever we are doing."

You are reminded of what Combeferre said. Of course, you hadn't listened then. You will listen to Grantaire.

You nod and he smiles. This time, it reaches his eyes. "Also, remember that I love you, unconditionally. I don't give two shits if you don't have sex with me. Being with you and not having sex is a million times better than not having you here."

"I love you too," you reply. It is the first time you say those words aloud, but they feel incredibly right as they roll off your tongue.

Grantaire pulls you in for a soft kiss, and you wrap your arms around his neck. This is comfortable. This is familiar. This, is home.

* * *

You never bring that night up. It was emotionally scarring and you were at a very weak point. Luckily, Grantaire does not mention that heart-to-heart, and for that, you are glad. Once the daylight had shown, the awkwardness of the confessions had hit you like a ton of bricks.

But Grantaire never let it get in the way. You kept on living your normal life, and sometimes Grantaire would excuse himself, but he never pressured you for anything. Eventually, you consented to giving him a hand (literally) on nights when you were feeling particularly loving. Grantaire would let out never-ending streams of the words "I love you I love you I love you" until his orgasm finished, and you had never felt better.

It was nice to see someone care. Even in a vulgar and licentious way.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac got a stern talking to by Grantaire and eventually all three of them made sure you understood that consent was consent. That was the most awkward conversation ever, and you never wanted to hear Combeferre say "anal penetration" ever again.

Luckily, things returned to normal. You still had fights and sometimes it was you who needed to comfort Grantaire and to reassure him of your love. Sometimes it was you who held him late into the night, murmuring the poetry (Jehan always kept a supply for them, teaching everyone new couplets and quatrains and haikus for every occasion) into his ear and pressing kisses to his hair. But whether it was you who was the comforter or you who needed the words, the other was always there.


End file.
